I wasn’t going to re-up my Jdate subscription. I mean, life is disappointing enough. Why add insult to injury by paying for it?
But this one fellow caught my eye. He, with his 1970s moustache and unabashed quest for “love and couplehood and partnership for life,” although since he wrote in Hebrew it is entirely possible that he was actually seeking a lovely roommate who doesn’t mind living with a couple.
You would think the word “lovers” in the bed and breakfast’s name would have given it away, but no.
Which explains why I was nothing but surprised when my friend, G, and I pulled up into the lovely little zimmer in the vegetarian community nestled in the lush green splendor of the Galilee and discovered that we had stepped into lover’s lane.
When I was in high school, I took a private course to prepare for the S.A.T.'s because that's what all my friends were doing. And, if you think about it, what does it say about university entrance exams if they require extra preparation that only some families can afford?
But lest you think this is a high and mighty commentary about class and education, don't you worry your pretty little head: It's all about my love life.
For someone who has never been very good at math – and, as a result, not very fond of it – I sure have been doing a lot of calculations lately.
How else to explain my nimble mathematics on the flight from Tel Aviv to Newark when I promptly figured out that I am over two decades older than the adorable Israeli teenage girls seated next to me, the ones who helped me figure out how to use the tv screen and remote control because I am such an old lady?
It says something about me that on a Saturday evening in Jerusalem, about an hour before sunset, when I stepped outdoors to take my dog for a walk I couldn't for the life of me figure out just who all these people were and where, exactly, they were going.
And then it dawned on me: It wasn't the good townspeople of Anatevka fleeing a pogrom but rather Torah-observers, dressed in their Sabbath best, hurrying to shul to daven mincha/maariv.
The one with the curly hair cropped short and the serious, worried face that reminds me of Jonathan Richman.
Sigh. How Jonathan Richman used to make my heart go pitter-pat during my college days when I would rush to see him in live shows and push to the front of the stage the better to see his fancy hip moves and crazy rhymes and forlorn longing.
"Aren't you just tired of being alone all the time?"
I asked my best single girlfriend as we walked through the leafy streets of the German Colony. We had just had a lovely meal to reward ourselves for the hour of our lives we lost putting the old man's apartment back the way it was when I moved in, which is another way of saying we grew old ourselves unloading bags and bags of junk and sorting through nasty old shoes so that when the old man comes home, all his junk is right where he left it.